Judge Away
by Kensley-Jackson
Summary: Chuck-centric oneshot based on the sneak-peaks from 3x20. Chuck muses about better days with Blair. Rated R


AN: Inspiration struck while watching the sneak peak's from this week's new ep. Don't read if you don't want to be exposed to the minor spoilers found in here (no plot giveaways, just dialogue and a reference to one CB convo) until after Monday's ep. For those waiting on "I'm Just Trying to Save You" update, it's coming along slowly. I'm about halfway done with the next chapter so bear with me!

* * *

**Judge Away, Shame Turns Me On**

Chuck Bass was the proudest man in the world. He had the most dignity of anyone he knew and even in his worst moments, he would never admit he was wrong out loud.

He wore his vanity (_I'm Chuck Bass)_, his pride _(I'm Chuck Bass),_ his greed _(I'm Chuck Bass_) and all the other deadly sins on his flashy, paisley bowtie like a metal he earned and not one he bought with his Gold card.

He reveled in the defeat of his enemies, never felt shame in making lesser humans cry, and always, always came out on top.

Well, almost.

Chuck Bass was the proudest man in the world, but only when he wasn't gagged and bound to his four-poster bed with a hot and haughty Blair Waldorf standing over him in a black leather bustier, twirling a paddle with her perfectly manicured fingers.

In those moments, which sometimes lasted hours (once, almost an entire day), he wasn't Chuck Bass anymore. He was Blair Waldorf's little bitch, her play thing, her property. And though he'd never say it out loud (unless she made him, over and over again), he loved every fucking minute of it.

Most who knew the two of them—or at least those who _thought _they knew them, because no one ever really could understand what they had—would most likely imagine the roles reversed in this type of sexually deviant activity (and let's face it, even their greatest enemies must have imagined—hell, probably _fantasized_ and on more than one occasion—what they were like together in bed. It was one of the world's greatest mysteries.)

But the truth was, Blair didn't get off on the humiliation—she suffered too much of it over the course of her real life to enjoy having Chuck do the shameful things he so willingly let her do to him. His lack of control was an aphrodisiac; knowing she was the only one he'd ever give his power to was hers.

The both liked it rough—hard and dirty and border-line animalistic—but Chuck enjoyed the pain she gave him in a way he could never really explain (nor would he ever want to).

He liked to get slapped, get bitten, get his hair pulled (he also liked to get spanked but even on his most submissive days he had trouble owning up to it).

He loved being gagged because his tongue too often got in the way of him getting what he needed. Blair learned early on in their experimental days that as long as he had the power to run his mouth off when he was tied down, then he'd never really lose all his control.

At first he tried to talk through the fabric, just a slur of muffled profanities and adorations that tended to break Mistress Blair's sense of concentration. That's when she first brought in the paddle (and when he learned he liked to be spanked—but only by her).

That afternoon (after they were _done, Chuck_) when she came to visit him and beseech him to visit Lily, he was only half-joking when he told her to come up with a punishment for him. The truth was he was absolutely aching for her to dominate him and make him pay for what he did to her. It would have fixed things, he truly believed, maybe not everything but enough for him to be able to live with himself again.

Nothing else he was doing was working. All the women he brought home just wanted him to be in charge—to _be_ Chuck Bass and fuck them like they all heard about—and he didn't have the balls to tell them that without Blair Waldorf, he wasn't Chuck Bass anymore and he never would be again.

But of course he couldn't, because that would cut off any physical contact he could get from a woman's body and then he'd really have to face the music that he was alone not just sometimes, but every fucking minute of every day. The more pointless fucks he could have, the more bearable his life could be—even if just for a little while.

But the women weren't working and neither was the alcohol.

Sometimes he tried to slap himself, pinch the skin on his arms and pretend it was her. But it was frivolous, just like all of his other flawed coping techniques.

Though sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could dream about her face, her body, her cunt, her hands, her smirk and her paddle…and he'd wake up to a sticky mess and an almost-smile.

And while almost didn't count, but it was better than nothing.

FIN.


End file.
